Chapter 31 Tasha
thirty-one
tasha
I watched Paige's body language with growing alarm.
She was tucking into herself, shoulders hunching, eyes darting between Nate and me like she was looking for rescue.
This wasn't a nervous child warming up to someone new.
This was a kid who sensed something fundamentally wrong but couldn't articulate what.
Sarah kept pushing, seemingly oblivious to Paige's discomfort.
"I have a wonderful house now," Sarah was saying, "with a big yard and a pool. There's even a craft room where we could do projects together. When you come visit, we could—"
"Why would I visit you?" Paige interrupted, her voice small but clear.
Sarah's smile flickered for just a moment before returning full force. "Well, because I'm your mother, sweetie. We have so much time to make up for."
Paige was quiet for a long moment, her gaze distant and intent. When she finally spoke, her voice had that matter-of-fact quality only children possessed, able to cut straight through adult bullshit with devastating simplicity.
"No, you're not," she said, looking directly at Sarah. "Tasha's my mom."
The words hung in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled. I felt my heart simultaneously soar with fierce pride and sink with the knowledge of what Paige had just handed Sarah's lawyers.
Sarah's smile froze on her face, and for just a second—less than a heartbeat—I saw something cold and furious flash in her eyes.
Not hurt. Not the pain of a mother being rejected by her child.
This was anger at Paige herself, rage that an eleven-year-old wasn't playing the role Sarah needed her to play.
"Oh," Sarah said, her voice artificially bright, "that's... well, that's very sweet that you care about Tasha. But I'm your biological mother, Paige. That's a special bond that—"
"I don't want a special bond," Paige said, and there was steel in her voice that reminded me exactly whose daughter she was. "I already have everything I need."
The temperature at the table dropped about twenty degrees. Sarah's composure was cracking, and I could see her struggling to maintain the maternal facade.
"Maybe we should wrap this up," Nate said quietly, recognizing the signs.
"Of course," Sarah said, but her voice was tight now. "It was lovely meeting you, Paige. I hope we can do this again soon."
"I don't," Paige said with devastating honesty. "Can we go home now, Dad?"
As we gathered our things, I caught Sarah watching Paige with an expression that made my skin crawl. It wasn't sadness or longing or even hurt. It was calculation. Like she was already figuring out how to use this interaction to her advantage.
Outside the coffee shop, Paige immediately reached for both Nate's and my hands.
"I don't like her," she said simply. "She doesn’t feel right."
"What do you mean, kiddo?" Nate asked.
Paige was quiet for a moment, trying to find words for something she felt but couldn't fully explain.
"She wasn't asking about me because she wanted to know.
She was asking because... because she thought she was supposed to.
Like when kids at school pretend to be your friend because the teacher told them to include you. "
Out of the mouths of babes. My eleven-year-old had just perfectly diagnosed narcissistic manipulation.
"You did great in there," I told her, squeezing her hand. "You were honest and polite, and that's all anyone can ask."
"Are we going to have to do that again?" Paige asked.
Nate and I exchanged glances over her head. "I don't know, sweetheart," he said honestly. "I hope not."
But even as he said it, I could see the wheels turning in his head.
Paige's clear rejection of Sarah would look bad in court.
A judge might see it as evidence that Nate had poisoned his daughter against her biological mother, rather than what it actually was—a child recognizing that someone claiming to love her actually felt nothing for her at all.
Sarah had gotten exactly what she needed from this meeting. The question was: What was she going to do with it?